"I can't, okay?" he finally blurts out, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles whiten. Sam becomes more and more petulant, begging and pleading and whining about being together and how much Lima, Ohio, sucks balls, and how they could have this perfect fucking fantasy life where they play their guitars in gas stations for a couple of bucks to get to the next city where they'll do it all over again, and they'll sleep in the back of the pickup truck wrapped in each other's arms, and eat peanut butter sandwiches and apples and water all day every day. That's not the kind of life he ever wanted for himself; sure, it means that they're no longer beholden to anyone or anything, and nothing is expected of them, but maybe he's getting older in that he wants a little more from life besides freedom to do what he wants.

"You're drunk, Sam," he says, gritting his teeth against the pokes. He's trying to get them home, and then he's going to make sure Sam's okay, and then he's leaving him a note and texting Quinn and basically saying, Not sleeping at home, not cheating, need a break for the night. "I'm taking you home and you're gonna sleep this shit off." Dropping him off at Quinn's for the night is a bad idea, given the things that Sam is saying. Bad, bad, bad idea. "I'll talk to you about this shit tomorrow." If you remember it. He concentrates on the road, intent on driving until he can park in their driveway and get Sam out of the car and into the house.